The Patriots
by THELEGOMack
Summary: A Hotline Miami fan fiction following three hitmen-a patriotic Miami PD officer, an adrenaline junkie with a taste for violence and a mercenary operating in Soviet Russia-as they plot against the Russian mafia at the behest of employers shrouded in mystery.
1. 1st Scene: Investigation

**22:03**

**MAR 30, 1989**

**Miami, Florida**

With a firm hand, Adrian rapped three times on the apartment door. The humid air hung uncomfortably around his head and the raging of a party emanated from behind the door as he counted the seconds in which no response came. He knocked again, a little harder, and still received no feedback. As he prepared to knock a third time, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged man in a white pastel suit.

"What the fuck do you want?" He growled in a thick Russian accent, with clearly no respect for Adrian's uniform.

"Miami PD, sir. We have heard reports of illicit activity taking place at this address." Adrian held up his police badge in one hand and a search warrant in the other. "I'll need to come inside."

The Russian scowled bitterly and stepped out of the way. With his hands at his sides, the police officer made his way into the well-furnished apartment. The sounds of the party quickly died down, with quiet, contemptuous discussion forming in their wake. Turning the corner of the apartment at a kitchenette, he discovered a scene not completely unexpected: Three men, all in identical pastel suits over blue shirts, lounged around a circular table. With one seat vacant, these men and the one of the door must have been meeting here over a stockpile of unloaded firearms and packets of cocaine. A pistol cocked behind him as his shoulder was struck from behind.

"Against the wall, swine!" A man behind him barked, shoving him up against the plaster wall. "Drop everything!" Adrian hesitated. "Drop your damn belt!" The mobster shouted, striking him again. Cautiously, Adrian removed his utility belt-holster, police radio and all-and began eying a kitchen knife left carelessly on a nearby counter. The men at the table began to murmur to each other in Russian. "Good," the man behind him said slyly, "now-"

Swiftly, Adrian grabbed the knife beside him and whipped around, slashing open his subduer's throat. The criminal missed his shot, firing off beside the officer's ear and deafening him. Adrian wrenched the blood-spattered Beretta from the dying man's hand and took aim at the other three mobsters-the one sitting in the middle, given such little time to react, could only raise his shotgun before taking a bullet to the brain. The other two, one armed with a golf club and the other with a hunting knife, only came a few feet from their chairs before they too were gunned down.

Adrian looked down at his hands as adrenaline began racing through him, magnified by the metallic reek of blood and the tinnitus screaming in his ears. Distant as it seemed, frantic shouting came from behind the door across the table.

Without hesitation, the police officer rushed forward and grabbed a shotgun from one of the dead communist's hands and took cover beside the door, prepared to kick it down.

The knob began to turn.

With a quick stroke of his leg, Adrian smashed the door open, knocking a Russian on the other side to his back. Mindlessly, he turned to the closest figure in a uniform and squeezed the trigger-a spray of hot blood erupted from the criminal's abdomen as he stumbled backwards and collapsed onto a neon-orange rug.

The cop was deafened to all but the frantic beating of his own heart. He cocked the pump, took aim, and fired again.

A second mobster could only brandish a baseball bat before his arm was messily separated from his shoulder.

A confused shout came from behind another door to Adrian's right-a bathroom.

Pump.

Aim.

Squeeze.

The shotgun blast practically knocked the door from its hinges and sent the man on the inside backwards into the empty bathtub behind him.

Adrian's eyes darted around the room, looking for other doors or more armed men-but he found nothing more than tasteless neon decor soaked and sticky with blood. But behind him, however, was the man he had knocked down upon kicking the door in.

The mobster slowly stood up, hands in the air and eyes wide with terror. Blood dribbled from a wound on his forehead. He began backing away from the barrel of Adrian's gun, saying some Russian words in a frightened and desperate tone of voice.

With little hesitation, the officer blasted his head clean off.

As he solemnly washed the blood from his hands in the bathroom nearby, Adrian could feel the racing adrenaline wane. The world came back into focus, and the unpleasant and all-too-familiar stench of death came to him. Behind him, he could see in the mirror, a Russian man lay dead in the bathtub; the impact against the acrylic had ungraciously broken open the back of his skull. He walked out into the bedroom and tried not to stare at the corpses littered within. One lay unevenly across a magenta bed spread, missing his right arm. Another was sprawled out on an orange shag carpet, intestines exposed. A third-headless-lay in the doorway to the kitchen. Adrian wondered if a lack of nausea at the sight of all this was a good thing.

At the kitchen sink, he wiped the spots of blood from his uniform with a wet towel and gazed into the drain.

"Someone will clean up after you after you leave," said the voice on his answering machine less than an hour ago, "please be discreet."

_So much for discretion,_ Adrian thought bitterly as he finished cleaning himself off. He had no time to retrieve his disguise this time; the message on the phone instructed him to arrive at this address at strictly 10 o'clock to take care of a "rat infestation", which was very shortly after he had gotten off of work. However, all it took was some improvisation and a meaningless sheet of paper he pretended was a warrant, and things seemed to work out smoothly nonetheless.

With a weary sigh, he stepped over another body and retrieved his utility belt from the floor in the corner.

He walked out of the apartment into the warm, humid night, and looked out at the bright, twinkling lights of the Miami skyline.

_We must make America strong again!_ the pamphlet proudly read when he received it many weeks ago. Little did he know at the time that this entailed pursuing the local mafia. He closed the door firmly behind him.

"I'm getting better at this," he said shamefully to himself as he walked away to his car.


	2. 2nd Scene: Mania

**21:39**

**APR 17, 1989**

**Miami, Florida**

Samuel checked his wristwatch with an indignant huff.

_Christ,_ he thought bitterly, _it's not even ten o'clock yet._ He trudged up the tough concrete stairs to the apartment block's second floor, and the monotonous buzzing of nearby fluorescent lights did little to help his patience. He shoved open the door into the hallway and walked the corridor's length as he meddled with his keyring, mail tucked under his arm.

"What bullshit," he grumbled to himself as he unlocked his apartment door.

He visualized what the party going on now must be like, and what fun he would be having had he not been kicked out by the host. Samuel wasn't even sure what it was-something he said, a rule he broke, what?-but they kicked him out without so much as a warning. He even brought the beer, too!

He closed the door harshly and stormed up to his desk at the window, haphazardly tossing onto it his bundle of papers and packages as he thoughtfully eyed the NES beside his television. So, it looked like game night. Again.

_Whoop-de-fucking-do._

However, as he sauntered over to his shelf of video games, a thought crossed his mind. He changed course and approached his phone, putting the receiver to his ear and playing back the answering machine.

_"You have one new message. Monday, 7:34 PM."_

Another voice came on the line, familiar and stirring.

_"Hey, it's 'Adam' at the auto shop."_

Samuel began tapping his fingers on the phone receiver with excitement; it was Adrian's voice.

_"I was wondering if you could cover my shift for me tonight. I'm feeling a bit..."_

He let out a prolonged, distraught sigh, causing Samuel's chest to clench with mild worry.

_"I'm feeling a bit 'under the weather.' Our new location is on 118 southeast street, in case you've forgotten again. Do a good job for me, okay? I'll meet up with you for beer when you're done."_

Samuel placed the phone down and glanced over at his desk's bottom drawer, clearing the thoughts of the party from his mind. If Adrian was calling him in code like this he was tasked with a mission, and either having a bad day or wanting to bring his friend along-judging by his tone of voice, Samuel figured that he would probably be showing up alone this time.

Samuel reached into the drawer and felt around, detecting thin rubber among papers and plastic pens. He pulled out the mask he was searching for and inspected its face: a perky-eared timber wolf stared back at him, its flat pink tongue sticking out like that of a dog happy to see its master after an evening away. It was the second mask given to him by Adrian as a gift, as well as the latest. With care, he stuffed it into his jacket.

As a combination of excitement and anxiety began welling up inside of him, Samuel scooped his keys off of the desk and donned his favorite pair of aviator sunglasses before stepping out the door. It looked like he would be having some real fun tonight after all.

• • •

Samuel gazed up at the bright neon sign on the building across the street as he brought his motorbike to a stop.

_Palm Drive Gentlemen's Club_, it boldly read in an eye-searing shade of magenta.

He dragged his gaze downwards to the sleek black sports car pulled up in front of the building. The guards at the front door, clad in familiar white uniforms-Russian gangsters, no doubt-gladly welcomed a man in a fancy suit that matched his chauffeur's vehicle. One guard shook the VIP's hand as the other twirled the end of a golf club, attentions diverted away from the killer watching them from across the dark street.

Samuel shook his head at the word 'killer'. As he had been told, he was a patriot first and an assassin second.

The guest strolled into the luxurious club as the guards followed in behind him and sealed the doors shut. Hesitantly, the car pulled away and sped off into the humid night. Presuming the entrance to be locked tight and heavily guarded, Samuel sneaked into an alleyway and made his way around the building. He came to a stop at the corner and listened, catching a conversation between two men; what little Russian he could understand was disjointed and informal. As tension began to flutter in his stomach, Samuel let out a not-so-calming breath and tucked his shades into his pocket. Methodically, he slipped the mask over his head and prepared to strike.

All too quickly, the wolf was on the attack. He punched the rose-tinted glasses from one Russian's face and snatched the knife from his hand. As the mobster reeled from the blow, his assailant slashed the blade through the second criminal's throat and kicked him into the side of a dumpster behind him. With the first gangster on the ground, the masked attacker thrust the knife into his chest.

Samuel stepped back from the scene and assessed the vitality of his targets: quickly, they both bled out, turning their white jackets a sickly shade of dark red. His breath circulated hot and humid in his mask, and his veins flowed with adrenaline, the most potent natural drug. He whipped his head to the strip club's rear entrance as he caught the pounding bass of electronic music emanating from deep inside.

Now it was time for the ultimate high.

He clenched the knife tightly and barreled into the door shoulder-first, knocking it open. One mobster, his back to the door, cast a bewildered gaze over his shoulder before taking a stab to the spine. The wolf wrenched the knife from his victim and hurled it blade-first into the left eye of a second Russian at the end of the hallway, dropping him instantly.

Samuel thrust open the nearest door to his right to find a changing room, surprisingly vacant. He snatched up a baseball bat leaning in the corner as a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the hallway.

It was a young woman.

A door slammed open in the corridor as there came two more voices, those of gangsters.

"What the fuck happened here!" One exclaimed.

"Over there," said the other, "that door!"

The wolf brandished his bat as white dress shoes clacked along the tile.

He thrust it around the corner, smashing open one criminal's face and causing the other to bring his handgun to the ready.

The woman's screaming escalated into a piercing shriek.

The patriot and his adversary were a few feet too far apart, and making a split-second decision bordering on lunacy Samuel threw his baseball bat and struck the Russian square in the face, knocking him unconscious. He retrieved the bloodied weapon from the floor and confirmed his kill with three swift strikes to the communist's skull.

Samuel stood to his feet, catching his breath, and noticed that the screaming had stopped. He glanced leftward to see a prostitute, scantily clad, shocked speechless and pale as the bodyguards' attire, stumble backwards into the open doorway behind her and faint. He looked back down at what was little was left intact of the mobster's head and picked up his pistol. He inspected it, unsure on quite how to use it. He made his way to the door into the club proper, deciding to hold it out like he saw in the movies: sideways, knuckles-up. He stepped over the comatose woman and turned a corner into a hall of what he assumed were private bedrooms as his adrenaline-induced high began fading like a dying lightbulb.

Thankfully, another Russian managed to rejuvenate it.

He came from one of the several numbered doors-out of seven, Samuel counted-and upon seeing the masked man let out a cry of alarm before taking a bullet to the torso and collapsing.

The assassin gripped his wrist in pain at the startling amount of recoil his gun had.

"_Fuck_ me," he growled.

As five more doors flew open, he ignored the pain and took aim.

A woman screamed from the only closed room as Samuel's gut clenched.

He had no cover.

Things were about to get interesting.

As soon as he saw a white uniform, he unloaded his weapon into the corridor. In only a few quick seconds, his slide locked and he tossed the empty pistol aside. One bad guy down.

Two.

Three?

A shotgun cocked.

"Die, _suka_!"

The wolf dashed forward, snatching up a golf club at he went. He turned into a doorway and struck the armed mobster across the side of the head with an audible crack. Detecting a sort of battle cry, he ducked as a baseball bat flew over the top of his head from behind, close enough to touch his mask's hollow rubber ears. He turned and swung his weapon, only for the gangster to catch it and wrench it from his hands before preparing for another swing of his own. Reflexively, Samuel punched him in the stomach and sent him reeling empty-handed into the hall, breathless.

The criminal and the predator stared each other down as the former fitted himself with a pair of brass knuckles. A sneer crept across his square jaw as his bald head shimmered with sweat.

"American bitch," he snarled before swiping his fist at Samuel's face.

Samuel dodged and flailed his arm in an attempt to connect it with something, anything. A fist like steel slammed into his chest, surely breaking a rib or two. He threw another punch, contacting nothing but the cold, dry air. A second set of knuckles pounded into his belly, knocking the wind out of him. Breathless and panicked, he ripped the mask from his head and looked his opponent in the face as the criminal drew a revolver from the floor.

His heart kicked into overdrive as he tackled the Russian to the leopard-print carpet and began pounding both fists into his face and jaw. The flesh of his cheeks swelled and bled as Samuel continued his assault. He only stopped when he could feel his bloodied hands contact raw flesh and bone, and stared down into the criminal's deadened eyes.

_"Holy shit!"_

He whipped his head towards the other end of the hall at the dark-suited figure staring at him in terror: the VIP. He must have escaped from his room during the brawl.

The guest bolted for the exit as Samuel put on his mask and slipped the dead mobster's revolver into his back pocket. For good measure, he stooped down and readied a Kalashnikov assault rifle before chasing after the man.

He sprinted down the hall and ducked through the doorway in hot pursuit, following the bloody shoe prints trailing along the carpet and tile. The pounding electronica from deep within the building became louder the further he ran, and the bass practically shook the ground. The bright, sickly blue of the back rooms' fluorescent lights gave way to neon pink against black decor. He whipped a curtain out of the way to find himself on a runway and halted in his tracks. Surrounding the stage lounged a crowd of gangsters and hookers, the former of whom drew firearms at the sight of the armed, blood-spattered intruder in a rubber animal mask. The women cried out in terror and ducked their heads, barely audible over the deafening beat of the club music.

After what felt like seconds of trepidation, Samuel raised his rifle and leapt from the stage, opening fire into the hostile congregation.

Wine glasses exploded, blood spurted, and bodies dropped to the hypnotizing beat of the music. The bass shook the floor, almost in sync with the rifle fire. Blood, alcohol and tobacco smoke flooded Samuel's nostrils as he tossed the emptied gun aside and drew his revolver. He kicked in the double doors leading into the lobby and sank a few bullets into the guards waiting for him.

There only remained the VIP, futilely pulling at the club's front doors. When he saw the wolf, he muttered a Russian curse word and pressed his back up against the door.

"F-fuck!" He gasped, pounding on the door in an asinine gesture. "Y-you speak English?" He stammered before the predator put a bullet between his eyes.

• • •

A cheery tune drifted through the cold, nearly vacant bar from a jukebox as Samuel strolled inside, hands resting leisurely in his pockets. His eyes scanned the room from behind his reflective shades, searching for Adrian. Finally, he found him sitting across the way with his nose in a newspaper.

"Hey, man," he greeted warmly as he approached from behind. Adrian remained silent. Samuel cautiously sat down in the booth chair across from him. "You okay, Adrian?"

Adrian peeked over his paper with dull brown eyes.

"Hey, Sam," he sighed. He put his paper down to reveal a gaunt, pale face. His auburn hair was messy and his soul patch seemed to rest uncomfortably on his chin.

"Whoa, you look like sh-" Samuel stopped himself and reworded his thoughts. "Uh, you don't look too hot."

"Glad to see you've showed up," Adrian sighed with a weak, short-lived smile, tossing the paper onto the table, "I've been waiting for over an hour." The policeman took a swallow of his icy drink and blew out an exasperated breath.

"Sorry, man. Is that vodka?"

"What? Hell no. I have work tomorrow, do you really think I'd let myself near any alcohol after a day like this? It's just water." This bar being their natural hangout, Samuel never expected his friend to come and _not_ share at least a beer or two.

"A day like what?" Samuel asked slowly, taking care with his words.

"Lindsay left this morning," his friend muttered. "Just took her things and fucked off." He took another sip of water and picked his paper back up. Samuel caught a glimpse of a news story on the side facing him:

_"Another massacre has been reported on northwest 184th street. A man wearing an animal mask was said to have been leaving the scene."_

"Looks like we're making headlines," Samuel said with a grin in attempt to lighten the mood with a more exciting topic.

Raising a curious eyebrow, Adrian turned the page over and scoured it with tired eyes. His mouth twisted into a scowl.

"That's not us," he grumbled, returning to his own reading. "Just some other poor fucker with a gun to his head."

"What?" It was Samuel's turn to cock an eyebrow.

Adrian let out a sigh of resignation and put his face in his hands. There came a bout of uncomfortable silence as the jukebox by the door switched off.

"You know that newsletter I signed up for a while back?"

"Yeah, you almost let me join. A program for diehard Americans or something, right?"

He could see moisture build up in Adrian's eyes.

"They left a death threat on my answering machine yesterday. Implied they'd kill me if I didn't get the job done."

Samuel could feel his enthusiasm drain, taking with it the willingness to speak.

"I'm such a goddamn idiot," Adrian continued with a hollow voice, letting his gaze fall to his feet. "I was too hasty. I knew that these folks were patriots like me, and we both wanted to fight against the Russians, but I didn't think they would be so literal about it."

"Well, what were you expecting?" Immediately Samuel grimaced, wishing that he could take the absentminded question back. Adrian shot him a livid stare, but managed to keep his tone down to a hiss.

"I wasn't expecting to be blowing their fucking heads off! Jesus Christ, Sam, do you really need to ask me that?" He checked his watch and hurriedly collected his newspaper, balling his free hand into a tight fist. "I've got to go," he said quickly, "it's after midnight already."

He stormed from the booth, and Samuel followed as he tried to rejuvenate the conversation.

"Come on, man," he said as they reached Adrian's car, "what's the big deal? They're criminals, they don't deserve to be ruining our society. Like you said, they're all Bolshevik scum, what should they mean to us? Communist sons-a-"

_"They are_ human beings,_ Sam!"_

Adrian was left huffing after letting out such a cry, and his face was beet red against his blue denim overcoat.

"I'm going home," he growled, stepping into the driver's seat of his car. "Don't call me until the week's over." He slammed the door shut and sped off into the hazy night without even buckling up. Samuel stood on the street corner, struck dumb at his own callousness. He sulked back to his motorcycle, removed his shades and stared up into the starless sky.

* * *

><p>I hope you're all enjoying the story so far! I would greatly appreciate some feedback. :)<p> 


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